The Dangerous Legacy of the Reno Air Races

A crash at the Reno Air Races killed at least nine and injured many more this weekend, when an experienced pilot lost control of his P-51 and plunged into the crowd. This is far from the first lethal accident at Reno. Pilot and PM contributor Jeff Wise spoke to a couple of experienced Reno pilots about the particular dangers of these races—and why aviators defy those dangers.

A deadly crash killed a pilot and at least eight spectators in Reno, Nev., injuring dozens more. Veteran stunt pilot Jimmy Leeward lost control of a P-51 Mustang, which plummeted into the seats. The National Transportation Safety Board is just beginning an investigation into what could have caused this, though Forbes reports that spectators saw a piece of the plane, possibly a trim tab, fall off the P-51 just before the wreck.

What we do know is that the air races at Reno have a deadly history, and the contest's intensity means it is dangerous for even a pilot like Leeward with a lifetime of flying experience. For the air racers who converge on Reno-Stead Airport each September, a worst-case scenario is staring them in the face every second they're airborne. When you're 100 feet off the ground flying at 400 mph, sudden violent catastrophe is never more than a few seconds away. If something goes wrong, a pilot will have to react instantly, Reno race pilot Randy Bailey tells PM. "When you have a structural failure here, you will very likely die."

The planes are packed tightly at Reno, meaning pilots must be as worried about hitting each other as hitting the ground. "The most dangerous time during a race is actually the join-up formation, and coming down the start chute," Bailey says. "I've had some guys do uneasy formation work coming down the chute that's made me uncomfortable. You've got people on either side of you, so if someone's moving into you, your options are limited. Do you stay where you are and risk getting hit, or move and take the rest of the chain with you?"

The other great unknown is the machine itself. Top aircraft can cost millions of dollars and the maintenance expenditures are lavish. But the racing conditions are so intense that breakdowns are frequent nonetheless. "Reno is the most strenuous time for the airframe, engine, and pilots. If there's a weak link, it's going to be revealed at Reno," Bailey says. "We're running them past redline. Some of them are being asked to put out twice the power they were designed for. There are a lot of engine failures."

When disaster strikes, it is almost always lightning-fast, like it was today. In 2002, the tail section of a P-51 named Miss Ashley II came off during the first lap of an unlimited race. The aircraft disintegrated, killing the pilot, Gary Levitz. In 2007, Brad Moorehouse was flying an L-39 Albatross military trainer when he hit another plane's wake turbulence, rolled twice, and crashed into the ground. That same year two Formula One planes collided while rounding a pylon, killing one of the pilots, Gary Hubler. In 2008, pilot Erica Simpson was doing a roll during a pre-race evaluation flight when the wing came off her Cassutt IIIM monoplane. The plane came apart and she crashed in the desert.

So why does anyone fly in these dangerous races? Simple: Those who take part say that racing at Reno is the most exhilarating form of aviation. "It's very intense, at times frightening and at times thrilling," Bailey says. "There are not many other thoughts that you process, because it's all-consuming."

Plus, there's the chance at victory. In 2003, retired fighter pilot David Rose was in the fifth lap of the Biplane Gold Class race when he noticed that his engine was losing rpm. "I thought, boy, this engine's going away," he recalls. "But I only had a lap-and-a-half to go, and I was in the lead."

After another lap, the cockpit filled with smoke. A seal on the engine had broken, dumping oil on the exhaust pipe. The smoke cleared quickly enough that Rose could see where he was going. But otherwise, things were not going well: He was 100 feet off the ground and moving at 250 mph.

Rose decided to hold on for the final half-lap, crossed the finish line in first place, then looped around to make a dead-stick landing. With no power and very little altitude, he had little room to maneuver. "I landed downwind with way too much speed," he says. "I called the tower and said, 'Roll 'em, I'm never going to get this thing stopped.' I was easily 185 mph over the beginning of the runway, with a 25 mph tailwind." Sure enough, Rose was going too fast to stop the plane before the end of the runway, and when the plane reached the end of the pavement it flipped over, leaving Rose hanging upside down in his harness. The plane was totaled, but Rose got lucky: He suffered only a quarter-inch-long cut on his finger.

Jeff Wise is a contributing editor for Popular Mechanics and the author of Extreme Fear: The Science of Your Mind in Danger. For a daily dose of extreme fear, check out his blog.